


arrowing towards home

by middlemarch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Boxing Day, Doctor Who References, Doctors & Physicians, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 20:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: She would have no idea of traditions of Boxing Day, which made her arrival almost unremarkable.





	arrowing towards home

“Oh, hang on, happy Boxing Day. Are you going to let me in?” Vivian said. She managed to look simultaneously extremely chic in a wool coat the color of currants and a Burberry cashmere scarf and nearly disheveled, laden down with carrier bags of such a variety of sizes Gareth found himself peering behind her for an accompanying Sherpa, once the initial shock of her appearance had passed.

“Of course, come in. Let me take some of those,” he replied, reaching out for the closest items, inhaling her scent as she leaned forward. She preferred classic perfumes, but somehow, they never seemed old-fashioned or stodgy when she wore them, only elegant and evocative of other times and places, rich with memory, suggesting futures he’d once forsworn. Today’s had the smoky sweetness of an early Guerlain.

“Thank you,” she said. She draped her coat over a chair and settled some of the parcels on the marquetry console table, then glanced at him more seriously. “I hope I didn’t wait too long.”

“For what?” he asked, gesturing her in towards the sitting room. She’d been several times before, but they’d spent the majority of their time in his bedroom; he had made sorties to the kitchen for sustenance, but she had remained in bed or in the large cast iron tub that he’d once considered ripping out. She put another bag down on the end of the leather chesterfield.

“To make you take a break,” she said. She fished a clearly hand-knit afghan from the bag and piled it on the sofa. She patted the spot beside the throw and said, “Sit down. Slow down.”

“Vivian?”

“This last case, you’re going to drive yourself to death over it, if you’re not careful, and you’re not. So, I guess I’ll have to be,” she explained.

“It’s not just any case, you know that,” he retorted. There was so much at risk, so few people he could trust…

“I know that, Gareth. I also know there’s no way to hurry the lab results and we can’t do anything without them. And whatever Bond’s going to do, that’s out of your hands,” she said, more patiently than he might have expected. Priscilla had never been without the hint of asperity in her voice, but though Vivian didn’t suffer fools gladly, she did not readily allow her irritation to color to tone.

“I feel sure there’s something in that latest report, I’ve just missed it,” he replied. “I can’t afford to take a break, as you say. There’s too much riding on this bloody case.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, felt the tension in his shoulders like a carapace he’d never shed. He’d have to recheck all the data, look for what wasn’t there…

“For fuck’s sake, Gareth, stop it! You need to rest, you need to accept you’re not super-human,” she cried out, suddenly as angry as he’d ever seen her. She took a deep breath, then began again. “You trust me, don’t you?”

He’d never articulated it to himself so bluntly, but there it was. The crucial question and he had the answer.

“Yes.”

“Then, please, don’t make me say ‘doctor’s orders’ or try to trick you into it. Just—just, sit down. I’ll make a pot of tea, I brought loose-leaf, not bags, don’t worry, I know what you like,” she said. What he liked and what he needed.

“I can’t let you play kitchen-maid to serve me, Vivian,” he said.

“While that’s an insight into your fantasy-life I was A) not anticipating learning today and B) have no intention of acting on, you can very well let me make a fucking pot of Earl Grey while you park yourself on the couch. I have a tagine ready for dinner and there’s a Doctor Who marathon playing today that I bet you weren’t going to allow yourself to watch,” she replied tartly.

“How do you even know I like Doctor Who?” he asked. He suspected he had lost the upper hand, if he’d ever had it, but he had to try.

“Really? That’s your question? Fine. You’re a Briton of a certain age…and you have a tie covered in tiny Daleks,” she answered, over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen with another of her carrier bags. What else lurked in their depths? He expected he’d find out, soon enough.

“That only means someone gave me the tie,” he called.

“You kept it,” she countered. Christ, she was quick. Brilliant and lovely and kinder than he deserved.

“And if I don’t want to spend the next eight hours watching Time Lords?” he said. He heard her moving about in the kitchen, the sound of water running and the delicate clatter of china being removed from cupboards. 

“I brought Lawrence of Arabia, that’s good for four hours, and it goes with the tagine. I got it from Momo, it smells exquisite,” she said promptly.

“I see you’ve planned everything out to the last detail,” he said. That was usually his role; the experience of coming second in anything was a novel one. And with Vivian, an unadulterated pleasure.

“I triaged and prepared for contingencies. I’m fairly good at that,” she replied, walking back in with the Limoges pot and two matching tea-cups on a tray, a dish of sliced lemon and the little jug that would hold the milk he preferred all balanced perfectly. There was even a plate of the Hobnobs he would never admit to loving.

“That’s perhaps the greatest understatement of the century,” he said, taking the cup she offered. The milk swirled amid the autumn color of the steeped tea and he let the steam play against his parted lips. She busied herself with the television, then settled next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. He could kiss her, shift them so she was in his arms, the tea-cup placed precariously on the end table, but he felt the most delicious lassitude take him as she drew the afghan up over them both. Later, there would be time for love-making; now, he watched the screen flicker, her profile lovely and all that he could see of her.

“I may need a little more background on this. Wikipedia was only so helpful,” she said, adjusting so she was pressed even more closely to him, warm and everything he’d needed. Everything he couldn’t ask for, but could be thankful for.

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“I know, Gareth. You always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is some mild hurt/comfort fluff for Boxing Day, for my Gareth Mallory-loving friend who is working long hours. The title is from "St. Stephen's Day with the Griffins" by Henri Cole, because St. Stephen's Day is Boxing Day and it was the most appropriate poem I could find. Apologies to any ardent Whovians for gratuitous use of Daleks and anyone who is revolted by milk in a cup of Earl Grey (I prefer English Breakfast but I didn't think Gareth would). Momo is a very well-regarded Moroccan restaurant in London and I have no idea if you can order take-out, but I think Dr. Liu can do anything she wants.


End file.
